dislcaim: I don't own; I borrow. Lyrics are U2's.
a/n: Flames are welcome. Whipped this little number up in under an hour.
Read with an open mind, or you won't understand.

"You've been trying to throw your arms around the world."

Dec. 1969

He came home because they sent him. They sent him with hollow eyes, and pasty skin. Who are "they"? I don't know. I've never known because I didn't want to. I didn't want to know who was taking my brother away and shipping us back something that wasn't human. They took Soda, but they never gave him back. What they gave us was an empty shell with no soul – nothing living, nothing breathing.

He promised that he'd come back. I know it's been said enough that it's a real cliché, but I know that Soda meant it real classic when he left. He was coming back – coming home. He's home now, but it ain't the same. It ain't the same 'cause he's not really here. Mom always told us that home is where the heart is, and Soda's heart ain't here. I don't know where it is.

The truth is that I don't want to know. If it's inside him, great. If it isn't, then it ain't so great. He had a real big heart – Dad always said so. I hate thinking about where it is and where it isn't. Sometimes I feel like I oughta map it out – track it down – and go get it. But he could still have it. If he does, it's real rotten. It ain't like it was when he left – when he said he'd come back

Now that he's back, I wish that he was still gone. It doesn't make a lot of sense – I know – but at least when he was gone he was himself. I'm not talking about the first week he was gone, or even the hour after he left. I mean the second he stepped out the door – when he had heart, and soul, and life. That second, and not the one before, or the one after.

The buzz cut they gave him was ugly. Soda's hair was his pride – our pride – and he didn't even have that. He would've looked okay all done up in his best clothes if he weren't so dead. Just a little less hollow and a little less still…

I keep thinking about the letter that told us Soda was coming home. Sweet home Oklahoma, Soda always said. Every time Mom and Dad would take us to Kansas to visit family, Soda would be a little less whole-hearted, and a lot more half. If home is where the heart is, Oklahoma – Tulsa – was definitely it. He hated being out of state. He hated being away from what he knew – he needed stability. He has that now.

But that goddamn letter. It tore Darry apart. I didn't even look at it because I had to stay together. When Darry shook though, I knew Soda was coming. That as the only time I never wanted him home – one promise I wish he would've broken.

I've broken so many promises, and I don't know why. I promised that I'd keep my head up, and keep it all together. I promised to quit lying, and stop attaching myself to everyone and everything. I promised to still look up to Darry, and I swore that we'd try and get along. We've been duking it out for the last three years – before Soda left – and it doesn't look like either of us are going to give up anytime soon. So, we'll keep at it until one of us gets fed up enough to quit or leave. Mom and Dad didn't raise quitters, though.

Soda would be real surprised if he ever saw how Steve and I treat each other. We're civil, and we talk. Well, Steve talks. I just listen. I've talked enough – Soda would know that. I couldn't ever listen to him though, so I listen to Steve. He has his demons, rides the dragon too much. He's smart though; he'll be fine. He even says that he's sorry about Soda, sorry for everything. It's a little too late for apologies, but I listen anyways. I owe someone something.

Sometimes I could really use one of Soda's remarks – just one thing to make me chuckle, and let me forget. He never says them. Soda never says anything. I don't expect him to, but sometimes I catch myself waiting like maybe he will. I wish I could've sent him into Reader's Digest. Not even for the money – because he was funny.

I always wonder if I could write a story about Soda and send it in. People could know him like I did – like I do – and they could feel the way I feel. Everyone needs to feel sometimes. But Reader's Digest doesn't pay for feeling. They pay for funny. They pay for Soda.

They don't pay for reality.